Hard Contact
by Rookie571
Summary: In the wake of the nightmarish chaos erupting all over Tokonosu City, and during the midst of an urgent mission, a US Army chopper pilot is forced to execute an emergency landing due to unforeseen circumstances. Now, stranded and completely lost—in a hostile country in which he has absolutely no prior knowledge of—he and his crew must find a way to make it out of the city alive.
1. Prologue: Jugs

**Hello, this is my first time writing a Highschool of the Dead fanfic, so hopefully you fellas**

 **don't mind me giving it a go. Anyhow, if you do find some mistakes here, please, don't hesitate**

 **to point it out. With that out of the way, here is the prologue to my story. :)**

* * *

"Admit it." The man sitting next to him said out loud, in a tone filled with utmost conviction.

"Never." He replied in kind.

"Admit it, damn you!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because," he reasonably started as he finally looked the man straight in his eyes, all serious-like. "there is no way in hell her jugs are better than Scarlett Johansson's. There's just no fucking way. Period."

"That's a crock of steaming horseshit, and you know it!"

"Jack, give it a rest. Her rack isn't even bigger than ScarJo's, nor is it even close to that level of godly perfection. I mean, even calling those pair of headlights she has as 'boobs' is a pretty generous assumption."

"You take that back!" Jack, also known in the service as Warrant Officer One John Geller most of the time, stood up in his chair in righteous indignation. "Those tits of hers are way more fucking perfect than ScarJo's will ever be!"

"I admit, they do seem _somewhat_ insanely perky," he conceded, as way to placate the other guy, "but in this case alone, size _does_ matter. Not to mention that deity of yours looks like she's going to topple over from a slight breeze."

That seemed to have struck a nerve, as Jack's eyes started to bulge.

"Yeah? Well, at least she's not fat and huge like a fucking cow!"

"Okay, now it's _your_ turn to take it back." He slowly stood up in his seat and pointed a heated finger at his subordinate. "Scarlett Johansson is _not_ fat, nor is she huge. She's _curvy_. As in, those fucking curves of hers are hot as all hell, and _au naturale_. Not like that fucking stick you're currently obsessing over."'

"She is not a stick!" Jack roared as he increased his voice's volume. "Gisele Bündchen is the picturesque essence of grace, and the epitome of sophistication!"

"No, she's not."

"She is! Not to mention she's also fit, and chic, and supremely classy and elegant."

"And also a fucking stick."

"Why, you disrespectful motherfu—!"

"Can it, both of you!" a booming voice in front of them instantly ended their asinine argument, and made both of them look in that direction.

Where they were immediately rewarded with the sight of their company commander, eventually entering the briefing room after a momentary wait, with a not-so-amused look on his face pointed at them.

"Atten- _hut!_ "

They were so busy arguing about who's breasts were better that they didn't notice the guy finally coming over to preside this particular brief. Naturally, everyone in the room including the arguing pair stood up at attention to greet the newly-arrived man.

"At ease," the older man, Captain Desmond Conklin, casually waved them off to relax and be seated once again, as he took his place behind the podium in front of the gathered group of pilots. "Before we start, what the hell were you two idiots arguing about?"

He and Jack both looked at the floor at the same time, as subdued snickers and amused chuckles from their fellow Army pilots colored them with sheer embarrassment.

He knew that arguing like an idiot with Jack was as childish as one could ever usually get, but goddamn it, that insult about Scarlett Johansson being fat was the last straw. A curvy woman, like that of his blonde goddess, doesn't necessarily equate to being fat. That's just common sense right there. Why couldn't that hardheaded jackass see that?

"Come on, I ain't got forever, damn it."

"Well," someone in the group spoke up, "I do believe that Geller and Wilkinson were arguing about whose particular set of breasts were better, sir."

That got another round of laughter from the congregated collection of aviators inside the room.

"What?" Conklin asked in bewilderment. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I shit you not, Cap."

"Jesus Christ, the shit I have to deal with." The captain breathed out in resignation, as everyone started laughing once more, not even bothering to be subtle about it; all while he was purposely keeping his gaze downwards, without looking at anything else in particular other than the shiny floor. He was sure that Jack was perfectly mimicking this particular act right beside him.

"Do you fellas want to finish that particular thought?" The captain mockingly asked with an annoyed tone. "Geller?"

"No, sir." Jack quietly replied.

"What about you, Wilkinson?"

Chief Warrant Officer Four Michael Wilkinson sighed in frustration, as he looked up to face his commanding officer. The man did not look entertained, at all. For one thing, the captain's facial features looked as if he was forced to babysit a bunch of immature and impertinent man-children, naturally masquerading as professional soldiers and pilots in the United States Arm—

Well yeah, okay, that does sound just about the gist of his job description. If anything else, he really couldn't blame the guy for looking this irritated at the both of them, or at this particular army aviation company in general.

He and the rest of them really did need to work on _not_ pissing off their CO so much, if they ever wanted to marginally advance their respective careers in the military. Somewhat.

"No, sir."

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, let's get this over with then. XO, hit the lights!"

The room's overall lighting instantly died down, blanketing them in complete darkness for the briefest of moments until the LCD projector above them finally turned on, showing all of them an overhead reconnaissance capture of a large sizeable metropolis residing near the ocean.

"Gentlemen, as most of you already know, this is Tokonosu City." Conklin began the briefing as he looked at the projection screening behind him. "It's about a hundred klicks west of here, and is one of the country of Japan's leading industrialized sites, and a major population center to boot. Overall, it's basically on par with many other well-developed cities in the Western Hemisphere, like those of New York, Los Angeles…blah, blah, blah, nobody really gives a fuck. In other words, let's just assume that this place is pretty much a big fucking deal and move on."

There were murmurs of agreement going around in the group.

"Anyways, as of today though, said city is in a state of near panic." the captain continued indifferently. "According to a few unconfirmed reports, some kind of unidentified problem is rapidly causing conditions there to deteriorate, to the point where local authorities are at their breaking point trying to contain the situation from escalating even further."

In front of Wilkinson, a hand was raised to signify that someone wanted to ask a question. He was thoroughly ignored by Conklin though, as the man continued on with his briefing.

"And because those poor fuckers are at their wits end attempting to unfuck this particular dilemma, the national government in Tokyo has finally realized that they really can't do shit anymore, and as such is asking Uncle Sam for help accordingly in pacifying this rather tricky snafu. This is where we come in, boys.

"As part of the President's commitment to the Japanese government, elements of the First Cav's aviation support component here, in FOB Pocky, is being tasked with providing limited C-Three upkeep and air movement. Where the Japs ask us to move some really important looking stuff, we deliver it no questions asked; and if they have a problem trying to reach someone on comms, and they're also struggling to coordinate a joint effort, we fix their shit without a moment's hesitation and so on and so forth. You get the gist of it.

"The regiment, or more specifically our battalion, is leading this certain endeavor. And since _our_ battalion is front and center on this fucking thing, the lieutenant colonel wants us to do this by the book, and without hitting any snags whatsoever. So, without further ado ladies and gentlemen, here's our tasker he assigned us to do…"

The projected picture shifted to another one, this time it was zoomed in to a part of the city that was a bit far away from the coast. Large skyscrapers dominated the area, and everything in between them was jam-packed with even minor buildings that weren't necessarily lacking in scope, but just wasn't as tall as the former. Wilkinson could only warrant a guess as to say that this was the city's downtown area.

"Bravo Company has been assigned to transport critical non-essential personnel awaiting evac on various rooftops here, as shown in this picture. The Japs want these people airlifted, so we'll do just that. And since it's all hands on deck for this one, that means all of our eight Black Hawks in our outfit will participate in this operation, along with full aircrews. So make damn sure that you get all of your crew chiefs accounted for and ready for transpo when the time comes. We're going to need them a helluva lot in this mission, now more than ever.

"As you can see here, our AO is a tad bit tricky. Seeing as there's not a lot of sustainable landing zones that can fully support the weight of a helicopter touching down, evac sectors are being divided into four reasonable areas that's already been assessed by nearby friendlies, with two choppers each assigned to it. Here are the specified LZ's."

On the same projected picture, two skyscraper rooftops and two other buildings that weren't essentially tall, but had sufficient size placement, were highlighted in bright red circles; numbered from LZ One to LZ Four respectively.

"I don't need to remind you fellas that those LZ's can barely support one Black Hawk, so each pair will land in turns. When the first ones land, the second choppers will provide limited overwatch until the other bird is full and is heading back to base. And once the second bird is done with their thing, they will do the same, etcetera, etcetera. Remember, just haul ass and get back here on the double. There's no telling when the company is going to be assigned a new set of orders, and it'll probably help a lot if you're back here, already being refueled and fully prepped once more before we go out again.

"As for LZ security, don't you guys worry none. Some groundside SDF forces have already secured the rooftops and the surrounding areas, so there's pretty much no trouble at all once you get there to exfil the civvies into safety.

"Alright well, that's pretty much it, I suppose." The captain concluded the briefing just as someone turned the lights back on. "Wheels up on eleven-hundred, so I suggest you fellas do some last-minute maintenance checks on your respective birds before the op begins. As for questions, uh, let's see…you were raising your hand earlier Studemeyer? What the fuck did you want to ask?"

"Well, uh," the man who wanted to inquire something but couldn't earlier, spoke up, "it was about this 'unidentified problem' thing, sir."

"What about it?"

"You have any idea as to what it is?"

"Hell if I know," their commanding officer said offhandedly, "it was pretty fucking conflicted, so the intel guys don't particularly know what to make of it. Those reports from earlier were mentioning all kinds of crazy shit, like apparently there's some sort of killing frenzy sweeping all over town, that random folks were going nuts or something, trying to slaughter each other by biting into other people's limbs for no specific reason or anything. Sounds like complete and utter bullshit, I know, but I don't really give a damn regardless. As it stands, we got enough shit on our plate as it is, so it's definitely not our problem."

"Good Lord," another person in the group spoke up, "kinda sounds like the setting of a really crappy Jap anime."

"No kidding." a third voice agreed.

"Alright, alright, enough fucking around. We're not getting paid by the hour here, so let's get on with it. Dismissed!"

The floors grated with noise, as the occupants of the room's chairs stood up and moved in disjointed symphony to quickly exit the room.

* * *

"Can you believe that shit the Cap just said?" Jack wondered aloud, as they and the other aviators of the company suited up in the makeshift locker room. "I mean, 'biting into other people's limbs'? That's just fucking insane, man."

"There is no way in hell that's actually for real," a fellow pilot, an average white guy by the name of Forster, piped in, "Hernandez is right, that does sound like the setting of some fucking Jap cartoon."

"Not cartoon, bro. Anime." Hernandez sagely corrected. "But yeah, you're right, it does seem a little far-fetched."

"Anime, cartoon, potato, po-tah-to, same damn difference." Forster said.

"There's actually a shit-ton of differences, bro."

"Whatever, I don't really fucking care anyways. They all look the same to me."

"That's what everyone says. Actually, it's kind of a popular misconception."

"Anime?" Another pilot, a hulking black guy named DeMarcus, joined in on the conversation. "Ain't that some really weird porno cartoons those pervy Japs watch and jerk off to? Like, you know, with them freaky-ass tentacles violating some cute chick's ass and all that bunch of shit?"

"Jesus, man," the Latino spoke out in a combination of horror and disbelief, "that's hentai. Well yeah, technically it _is_ some form of anime, but there's more to it than that. Anime is actually a really good medium for entertainment, more so than cartoons. And, it's on a whole league of its own, since there's just some things that live-action movies and traditional animation elsewhere just can't seem to capture."

There was a brief moment of silence in their part of the lockers, as no one said anything after Hernandez's enlightened lecture. Those didn't really last long.

"So…uh, does this mean you also like to watch them pervy tentacle cartoons, too?"

"What? No, you fucking dumbass! Haven't you been paying attention to what I've been saying? You're completely missing the goddamned point!"

"Don't be getting all flustered, now. I ain't gonna judge." the African-American pilot said in amusement. "If you get your rocks off watching some poor bitch getting hammered with a space squid's slimy tentacle, then hey, you go for it. It's only natural for people to have some weird ass fetish. We only human, after all."

"For the love of God, man! I _do not watch_ fucking hentai!"

"Ohhh, someone's getting a wee bit defensive." DeMarcus's co-pilot, O'Connor, sounded off next to the guy. "Come on, Julio. It's okay to admit to us that you actually get turned on by tentacles being shoved up women's asses. Like what my man said, there's no judgments here, brother."

"Yeah, no judgements whatsoever…you weird ass tentacle fucker!"

A bunch of the guys in the room laughed at Hernandez's expense, with said pilot's ears and cheeks turning beet red with silent indignation and embarrassment.

"I swear to God, you guys are complete fucking idiots sometimes…" the guy grumbled with annoyance as he proceeded to strap on some of his flight gear.

"Whatever you say, tentacle fucker."

Hernandez zipped his mouth shut after that.

"Seriously, though," Jack went on, all thoughtful, "Julio's weird tentacle fetish aside—" that earned the man a scathing look from the Latino pilot across from him, which he was completely oblivious to, "—why the hell did they pick us for this shit?"

"What do you mean?" Forster asked.

"Think about it, this place has already a shit-ton of guys already posted here, right? What, with those dumbass jarheads based in Okinawa, and a couple of Air Force fighters jocks stationed in air bases all over. Why send us here instead?"

"Does it really matter?"

"That's beside the point. Still, it kinda makes you think, don't it?"

"Hmmm…" Forster stopped whatever he was doing to ponder on Jack's query.

You could see the man's facial expressions work in overtime, as he seriously thought long and hard about what Jack had mentioned.

Time seemed to stand completely still, as the man himself looked up to the overhead lighting to gather some brief form of impetus. It was like a watching a prime genius in his element, valiantly congregating his precious game-changing thoughts for the next great breakthrough on whatever it was they were trying their damnedest to solve.

Or even that of a great master during the fledging age of the Renaissance, who was just waiting patiently for that exact 'Eureka!' moment for inspiration to take hold of their very essence, just letting it take control from there as primal artisanal instincts took over and let their hands move as if they had a life of its own.

It was a fascinating thing to watch, for whatever that was worth.

Though, in reality, Forster's supposedly deep contemplation on the matter lasted for the better part of no less than two seconds, before finally deciding to go with a simple, "meh" and quickly moved on from that topic.

Which, of course, made Wilkinson laugh quietly in delight.

In hindsight, the guy wasn't really that well-known as a deep thinker anyway. He was simple, like that.

"It ain't funny, damn it." His co-pilot, Jack, complained when he saw him laugh. "I'm being totally serious here. Doesn't it strike you as odd, at all, that they build a forward operating base in the boonies out from scratch—in the middle of fucking nowhere, mind you—with the nearest settlement a hundred klicks west of here, with said FOB garrisoned by a unit that's totally not near this place. Ever. For God's sakes, we're based in Texas for crying out loud. _Texaaas_. And we're just supposed to be okay with all of this?"

The CWO4 groaned audibly as he finally put on the finishing touches of the flight gear he was putting on, and grabbed his standard-issue HGU-56/P flight helmet from inside the locker.

"Jack," he said as he closed the compartment's metal door. "do you really want to know what I think that badly?"

"Yes!"

"Alrighty then, here's what I think." He faced his co-pilot. "I think, that I don't particularly give a shit _why_ they sent us here, or our regiment in general."

"Seriously…?"

"Let me finish."

"Sorry." His co-pilot sheepishly said.

"As I said, I don't particularly care that they sent us here, no matter how much it absolutely makes no sense whatsoever. But," He added, before Jack could interject. "you do seem to bring out a few solid points. That deserves to be commended."

Jack's face lit up from the praise. Seriously, it really didn't take much to please this guy.

"Although, to quote one of our esteemed comrades-in-arms, Chief Forster," Wilkinson nodded his head on the aforementioned guy's direction, who just grunted from having his name called, "does it really matter?"

"Well, uh…"

"Exactly. You brought out a lot of really compelling points there, Jack 'ole boy, you really did. And I'm impressed as all hell at how astute your observations were. But, though logical it may be, at the end of the day it doesn't really matter a helluva whole lot. Because we're already here, six thousand and five hundred miles away from Fort Hood to be exact, inside a hastily constructed FOB that was built in less than a week by disgruntled Marine and Army engineers, and to top it all off, we're in a country where we do _not_ know any actual shit that's of importance. Language, customs, manners, laws, fuck dude, you name it. You've really hit the jackpot as to how fucked up this all is. And at this point, there's not really much we can do about it.

"So, I ask you again," he added as an afterthought. "in the end, does it really matter what we think?"

Jack's shoulder's stooped in defeat as his concerns about their unexpected deployment here was utterly shot down. By him, no less.

In fairness, he wasn't being a total dick just so he can get a laugh out of this.

He wanted to let his co-pilot fully understand that this was the Army. Most of the time, not everything it did made a helluva lot of sense, and going about it questioning everything wasn't going to get you anywhere as long as you were still here. Usually, the only thing one could do in a helpless situation like this was just go wholeheartedly with the flow and do as you were ordered to.

Nothing more, nothing less.

And, if they played their cards right and everything went off perfectly without a fucking hitch, only then could they all pack up and leave; blissfully forgetting everything that's ever happened here, where they were being shipped off to a random land with barely only twenty-four hours' notice, and told to perform GS missions without any clear heads up or prior knowledge as to what they were doing in the first place at all.

Such was the life of a professional military serviceman in the United States Army.

He really should've just went to law school and become a fucking lawyer, just like his dad had wanted him to.

"…no…"

"What was that?" Wilkinson asked, not quite hearing his subordinate.

"No, sir."

"Attaboy." He clasped Jack's shoulder warmly. "Don't be so fucking grim, my man. Trust me, in a few more tours, you'll get used to all this shit eventually and be as gung-ho as can be. So to speak."

Jack just sighed.

"Let's just get on with this and go home."

"I couldn't agree with you more, buddy. Let's go."

* * *

Officially, the forward operating base that was constructed here in the middle of the peaceful Japanese countryside didn't necessarily have a name. For one, the combat engineers from the Army and the Marine Corps, who had been unfortunately tasked with building such a ridiculously large facility in an insanely brief amount of time—even by military standards—didn't really give a fuck as to what the place was to be called. Wilkinson just knew the shit based on what he was told. Ostensibly, an hour after they finished building the place, the combat engineers just went up and left and didn't bother looking back, dead tired and discontented to the point where they actually made record time in going back to their respective bases.

The only reason this place even had a name to begin with was because some Jap school kids, who were out on a field trip nearby and had seen the newly-arrived soldiers from the 227th Aviation Regiment, suddenly became curious, and visited the supremely jetlagged sons-of-bitches just waiting at the outskirts of the base's perimeter.

He wasn't there when it actually happened. But according to a few people he knew who were there, the little _kodomo_ , as the Japs called their kids, started to hand out their extra snacks to the poor and beleaguered soldiers waiting for hours on end trying to get in; just about exhausted and extremely cranky, from having little to no sleep, and who's only form of sustenance during that day were questionable MREs and jaded willpower.

One of the snacks that the gracious little bastards had given them were these thin, chocolate-covered biscuit sticks that were named Pocky.

And once they had a taste of that stuff, the soldiers who ate it went insane with glee. As in, they actually broke out wild smiles and started to profusely thank the little kids, momentarily forgetting how worn-out and hungry they were as they asked for more. With a few enterprising servicemen even trading in a couple of contraband souvenirs to get the last of the biscuit sticks.

Naturally, the guardians of said kids weren't exactly pleased when they found out that a couple of the children possessed deactivated frag grenades and a vintage AKM bayonet.

Two days after they finally settled down, the insatiable demand for the product was so ludicrously high, that the brass eventually had no choice but to contract a local retail chain nearby to supply the hooked fuckers with an immense crapload of the stuff. Kinda like a reluctant drug dealer finally coming to grips with the fact, that they can't really stop a dear friend from getting wasted on their fine and addictive product.

Thus, with unanimous and overwhelming consent, the hastily constructed garrison, which was built from the ground up by its makers with nothing more but military ingenuity, speed, and immense apathy, was lovingly christened by its new tenants as Forward Operating Base Pocky from here on out. Unofficially, that is, as to not greatly burden the admin staff in the Headquarters and Headquarters Company with copious amounts of paperwork.

Yes, it was as ridiculous as it actually sounded.

And no, most of the people stationed here didn't seem to think so.

Just another fine example of one being all that they can be in the Army, he supposed.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe how ridiculous these people would ever truly be, and they're _actually_ being charged with defending the free world from ever constant harm, too. The irony was seriously not lost upon him.

Wilkinson just shrugged it all off, as he neared the rows of numerous utility helicopters belonging to his company, which were evenly being arrayed in an impressive flight line and just about ready to take off at a moment's notice.

Even though he had some reservations about how silly the service can be at most times, he couldn't help but be fascinated at how orderly everything was and just how symmetrical everything looked before him. With a place for just about everything, and everything finely in its place.

It really was a sight to behold, if he did say so himself.

With his co-pilot in tow he ignored the other notable choppers, as both of them calmly walked down the line, and headed straight for their beloved bird at the other end of the clear-cut formation.

And just like the last time he saw her three days ago, she was still as beautiful as ever.

'Her', being in this case, a Sikorsky UH-60M Black Hawk helicopter.

And like all beautiful things that were of this world, 'she', of course, had a proper and befitting name. And her name was Betty.

And there was absolutely none like her.

With four wide chord blades on its main and tail rotors, she was powered by two T700-GE-701D engines that could just about make a maximum of 2,000 shp, or about 1,500 kilowatts generated on each powerplant. Which translated to a lot of raw power housed in a long, low profile shape that gave it sleek lines and drop-dead gorgeous curves in all the right places. Equipped with a highly advanced, state-of-the-art avionics package, and durable electronics, she was damn-near unstoppable to do whatever she so well pleased. Aside from all that remarkable features, Betty also had an improved durability gearbox, an Integrated Vehicle Management System computer, and a new glass cockpit that gave her pilots a supremely gorgeous view all around.

She really was a dream to fly.

And, if you treat her just about right, she was more than capable of whatever was thrown her way.

From carrying eleven heavily armed troops, lifting 2,600 pounds of internal cargo—9,000 if you carried it outside with a sling—to even a fucking 105mm M119 howitzer, along with thirty of its heavy duty artillery shells _and_ it's four-man crew!

You name it, she does it. And if you were dumb enough to even remotely doubt what she could do, he and she would be more than happy to prove your dumbass wrong.

Betty was everything an Army aviator could ask for in combat utility helicopter. That, and quite possibly even more.

And she was his baby.

Wilkinson affectionately ran a hand through her nose and eyed her dotingly, like a father would looking after his only daughter on her first prom night, or a husband adoringly embracing his wife on the night of their honeymoon. Their relationship was built upon mutual respect, trust, skill, and a healthy dose of blind faith. The CWO4 lost count on how many times Betty has saved him and his crew from total destruction.

Be it from hostile ground fire, adverse weather conditions, or even freak accidents; on all separate occurrences, she's never failed to bring all of them home in one piece.

He patted the nose with a knowing smile.

"Do you want me to get you guys a room?" Jack spoke out as he observed his gestures.

"That joke got old the first twenty times you've said it."

"And I'll keep on saying it, until you finally lose the urge to make sweet, sweet love on this here piece of Army equipment."

"Jack," he craned his head to the guy beside him, "how long have you been my co-pilot? Two, maybe three months max?"

"More or less, yeah."

"And how many times do I have to tell you to stop badmouthing Betty?"

"I think this makes it thirty-two times now. No, no wait!" the younger aviator paused to faux-tap his chin as if he was trying to consider something relevant. "Thirty-three times. Yes, let's go with number thirty-three. I'll probably take what you said into consideration _after_ the thirty-fourth time you reprimand me, for not approving of your indecent fraternization with a Black Hawk. Sir."

With an insufferable sigh, Wilkinson wordlessly outstretched a hand and smacked the WO1 from behind his head without warning. The other pilot didn't like it one bit.

"Ow!" His co-pilot put a hand on the affected spot, more so out of his dignity being shattered than actual injury "What the hell, boss?"

"That's for badmouthing Betty." He casually remarked. "Again."

"You never usually hit me when I start talking smack about your precious bird, why now?"

"Because I can."

"Oh. That wasn't what I expected."

"Anyway, didn't they ever tell you at Fort Rucker _not_ to doubt the bird that you're flying? That's like, Army Aviation One-Oh-One right fucking there. Not to mention its bad juju to be tempting fate."

"They did." Jack rubbed the spot where he got smacked with a hand. "I never usually believe in all that shit, anyhow. Seeing as superstition is just for uneducated idiots who don't know their ass from their hole."

"Are you calling me an uneducated idiot, Jack?"

"Well…you know, if the shoe fits…"

He gave his subordinate a certain pointed look, which was instantly received by the other end with clear understanding and intent.

Naturally, the other guy took a step back as a precaution.

"Alright, alright," the WO1 raised a hand in surrender, "I'll stop now."

"Good call." Wilkinson mentioned as he started to look around the Black Hawk's interior compartment to look for someone. "Speaking of, where in the hell is Chief Mendez?"

"Huh. Now that you mention it," Jack also looked around to help find their bird's crew chief, "I haven't seen him around since we went to that pre-op brief earlier this morning. He tell you anything before we left?"

"Yeah, something about looking for a temporary stand-in for Chief Vernon since he ain't here. Thought he'd be back by now."

"Hmph! That lucky fucker." the co-pilot scoffed with mild contempt. "Vernon asks for leave _two days_ before we shipped out and got it. How in the hell is that even possible? Nothing ever works that fast in the Army."

"Uh huh."

"Now he's probably off somewhere, sipping fruity umbrella drinks and banging hot tropical chicks, all while laughing his Midwestern ass off at how fucked we are for not following his lead."

"You do realize that he's visiting his family in Cleveland, right?"

"Whatever, it could still happen." his subordinate commented. "He has, like, forty-five days of unused leave. Best guess is, he'll probably use five of it to reconnect with his folks, then spend the rest of it in said tropical country. Hot chicks and umbrella drinks and all. Hell, that's what I'd do."

"And that's why you're such a perfect example to us all, Jack." He observed dryly. "Because nothing says family like ditching them for an overpriced drink, and a floozy whore drunk outta her mind."

"Okay, if you put it way, then—"

The sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from behind made them stop whatever it was they were talking about, and as one, both aviators slowly turned their head to look at the source of the noise.

And were quickly head-on with the old, grizzled features of one Chief Warrant Officer Five Hector Mendez, who wore a neutral expression on his face along with his hands jutted authoritatively along his hips. All business-like and serious.

It promptly made both of them forget what they were talking about.

As the main crew chief of their helicopter, Mendez was responsible for everything that happens in or to said chopper. And since he _was_ the main crew chief, he was basically God in all but name, having the authority to tell anyone getting on the Black Hawk where to sit and where their cargo should be loaded. Aside from his customary duties, which usually included navigation, direct combat, and crew management, he also gave crucial instructions to the pilots, operated the pintle mounted machine guns near the doors, drop smoke grenades to mark designated landing zones, and likewise help in the maintenance of the bird they were assigned to.

Though most members of a helicopter crew work for no longer than twelve hours at a stretch, to reduce the risks of fatal accidents, Mendez often stays a tad bit longer than most, frequently working for a few more hours before _and_ after the mission. Which, more often than not, meant that he did constant safety inspections of their Black Hawk, made updates to the logbook of any operational matters, and organize any piece of gear that needed to be taken care of; making damn sure that they were good for the day's mission, and was more than ready to tackle on the next one.

A consummate professional through and through. He was just _that_ good. And needless to say, Wilkinson was more than glad that he was assigned as this man's primary pilot. Not the other way around, as one would most likely assume. With this man's collective knowledge and practical experience over the years, he could pretty much do whatever he wanted, and both pilots that were with him were just along for the ride.

But the man's face though…it kinda half-way looked like it was locked in a permanent state of scowling. Like everything around him pissed him off so damn much, that he couldn't express any additional sentiments, other than neutral or just plain pissed. And he wasn't necessarily proud of this either, but the first time he met the forty-year old crew chief eleven months ago, he was pretty much scared shitless.

At least now he got to understand some parts of Mendez's existence, and he got to know the man a little bit more on the personal level other than his professional life as his crew chief.

He was still afraid of him sometimes, though. That really couldn't be helped, as much he tried to.

Nevertheless, said man in front of them wasn't alone.

Behind him, a much shorter and clearly younger looking Asian, wearing the same flight gear as them, meekly popped his head sideways to take a look at both pilots.

"Hiya, Chief." Wilkinson greeted the much older man. "What'cha got there?"

"Gentlemen," Mendez gruffly spoke as he stepped aside to introduce the Asian. "This here is Specialist Nishioka. He's Vernon's replacement for the time being, and from here on out, will take the right door gun and assist me in whatever duties I will undertake."

"Splendid. Though, I gotta ask, where'd you find him?"

"HHC."

"Wait, what?" Jack did a double take.

"You heard me."

"So," Betty's main aviator dipped his head into thoughtful deliberation. "you're telling me, that you somewhat…'acquired', this little fella from the regiment's Headquarters Company, and no one there batted an eye?"

"That's exactly right."

"How?"

"I just requested for an additional crew man." the crew chief said simply. "And they gave me him. No questions asked."

"Jesus," his co-pilot puffed out in exasperation, "Chief, that's fucking crazy."

"Is it? I merely wanted for us to be at full-strength when we lift off at eleven hundred."

'How the hell'd you know about the op's kickoff time?"

Without a word, Mendez zipped open the sizable compartment he had on his flight suit and extracted two sets of map cases, which he then gave to both of his pilots.

Wilkinson gingerly grabbed for one and flipped open the chart to critically assess its contents.

In it were several printouts, one with an overhead recon cap of Tokonosu City, complete with verified initial air control points, for them to use in getting there and then going home to later; followed by a normal map of the area with the standard grid reference system attached; and then finally another picture of an extremely zoomed in section of the city, specifically highlighting a tall office building with a flat surface, where he and another bird he was supposed to be flying alongside with were assigned to land, with the caption 'LZ Four' underlined in bright blue letters.

Basically, it was their flight plan. Which were usually given at briefings, but for some peculiar reason, wasn't handed out by their CO when they were there earlier. He found it initially odd at first, but he didn't outright question it when he and the rest of the pilots there ultimately left after the brief was concluded. He knew there was a reason why the flight plans weren't given out, but he just really didn't care all that much at all and decided to just wait it out.

And here it was now in all its glory.

He looked up at the older man in astonishment.

"Chief, where the hell did you get these?"

"Went to Central Ops myself and got us a few copies."

"How, though? Do the other crews have these as well?"

"They'll be getting it in about thirty minutes or so." Mendez coolly replied. "Let's just say…we got the advanced copies."

"Christ Almighty." Wilkinson breathed out in amazement as he closed the map case. "You never did fail to impress me, Chief. Whatever it is that you're doing, by all means just keep on doing it."

"Hmmm…"

The CWO4 looked at the man again, this time, it kinda seemed that there was something troubling him on his mind, to say the least. Although, he wasn't rightly sure. The way his face kept on contorting its features right now could pretty much mean a dozen different things entirely.

So he elected to ask instead.

"Chief?"

"Hmmm…?"

"You alright there?"

Mendez stared at him for the briefest of moments, before opening his mouth to try and tell him something.

But the words he was expecting to come out of never came, as the crew chief just stared at him slack-jawed with an obviously conflicted gaze.

The older man just slowly closed his mouth to signify an end to the matter.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The crew chief responded after about a few seconds' worth of silence.

"You sure?" Wilkinson earnestly inquired. "Because if you got some concerns, I don't mind hearing them out."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo. I'm sure it's nothing. We should probably do preflight before the company's Oscar Mike." Mendez said before finally walking away to perform his preflight duties.

As the older CWO5 started putting some distance between them, the young pilot just stood there, stunned and not knowing what to do.

What the hell was that all about?

* * *

 **And that's the prologue right there. Anyways, hope you guys actually enjoyed it. If there are some things**

 **you want me to know about, do leave them in the review. I'd happily go over it. Later, fellas.**

 **-Rookie571**


	2. Mister E

**Hello. Here's Chapter Two. After this, the next one will be set at Tokonusu City itself.**

 **Again, if you find anything out of the ordinary, or you just want to say a few things, please don't hesitate to tell me. Input is always welcome, regardless of what it is.**

 **Enjoy. :)**

* * *

"Uh, Chief…?"

"Yes, Warrant Officer Geller?"

"What are those duffel bags doing in the back?"

"What about it?" the CWO5 asked brusquely, just after the rest of them finished the last of Betty's exterior preflight checks. Which included, but wasn't necessarily limited to, removing and securing the helicopter's covers, locking devices, tie downs, and also checking to see if the main and tail rotors were as fine as can be.

As of the moment, they were on their way to start with the interior part of their overall preflight, when Jack spotted five fully-loaded duffel bags stowed tightly underneath the passenger compartment's seats.

"What's in it?"

"Nothing that concerns you." Mendez assured him simply as he started inspecting the onboard fire extinguishers and first-aid kits.

"But," the co-pilot asked with a persistent tone, "aren't the pilots supposed to know what they're hauling inside the bird?"

"That's my job, kiddo. Like I said, nothing for you to be worried about."

"But—"

"Let me put it this way, then." The older man suggested with a really noticeable impatient undertone. "It's none of your goddamn business. And since I outrank you and I'm telling you that you don't need to know, you _really_ do not need to know. Got it?"

Jack didn't say anything in reply, shocked at what their crew chief just said to him; instead the younger pilot unabashedly turned his head in Wilkinson's direction, and gave him an annoyingly pleading look.

Oh, that insolent fucker.

What the hell was he doing, bringing him into this? He didn't want any part of this fiasco.

But, as always, Jack _begrudgingly_ did bring out a really good point. Again. He was starting to hate the man immensely for it.

Although, for as much as he'd known the guy, Chief Mendez was always relatively straightforward with him and the rest of the crew. To see him like this, all ambiguous and secretive, was a weird observation in itself. Not to mention that he was packing five obviously packed duffel bags with God only knows what was inside of them.

Contraband items, maybe? Or even miniature tactical nuclear warheads? Heh, fuck knows. What the Chief does in his spare time was really none of his damn business. But if he was going to bring a couple of unknown items on an op, that may or may not endanger the group or the mission, really was a huge red flag without disclosing its contents to the rest of the chopper's crew.

Was this any, at all, related to what the man had wanted to talk to him about earlier, but didn't at the last second? There was only one way to find out.

Sighing in pretty much long-suffering acceptance, the Black Hawk's main aviator faced his technically superior officer and summoned his most reasonable tone of voice.

"As much as I hate to agree with the annoying prick—"

"H-Hey!" Jack sputtered out irately.

"—as per usual, and against all forms of reason and logic, he does bring out a good point, Chief." Wilkinson continued without stopping. "Hey, I don't believe it, either. Who knew underneath all that fucking crap he calls his brain, there's actually something working inside there."

"Stupid, fucking dick…"

"You're addressing a superior officer, Jack."

"… _sir_."

"That is much better."

Ignoring both of the pilots' slightly easygoing repartee, Mendez just decided to keep his mouth closed to hopefully avoid getting to the heart of the matter, and get away with whatever it was he was doing. He was not making this easy, that's for sure. And if Wilkinson wanted to get to the bottom of this, it was going to take a lot more than Jack's keen observational skills and bulletproof-ish reasoning to get the guy to open up on why he was so stubborn about a couple of duffel bags.

"Hector…" He began.

"Hmmm…"

"This isn't like you at all, man."

"Oh, is it now?" Mendez snapped at him.

Disdain. Another trait unbecoming of their battle-hardened, sensible, and tough-as-nails crew chief. Seriously, what the hell was bothering him?

"Yes, it isn't." He countered intently. "Come on, Chief, what gives?"

Another round of awkward silence on the other man's part.

Jesus, for someone who's supposed to be a superior officer, and practically over a dozen years older than the rest of them, he was quite frankly acting like a petulant child at the moment.

It was time to change his approach.

"Fuck sakes', Chief. If you're not going to tell us what's in the fucking bags, at least tell us _why_ you're bringing them."

"And I'm telling you that—!"

"Please." Wilkinson cut him off, practically begging. " _Sir._ "

He made sure to emphasize the last word with as much restrained patience and conviction as he could.

It was the only thing that he could think of that might actually work right now, his pride and dignity be damned.

Well, whether it was his feeble attempts at a beseeching plea or his doleful impatience aside, it seemed to have made wonders to the man next to him. Because it looked like Mendez was running out of steam from which he was going to use as fuel for his frustrations; and all that was left now was a grimacing face slowly untightening, as whatever was causing him to snap at them was slowly ebbing away.

That still left both pilots with a rather obstinate crew chief who was not telling them shit. Though, at the very least, he wasn't snappy and belligerent anymore.

"Chief…" Wilkinson voiced out.

"….surance…."

"Say what now?"

"Insurance." The CWO5 breathed out uncertainly.

"Insurance?" He repeated with a tilted head and forthright curiosity. "For what, exactly?"

"It's just for…something down the road. Just in case."

"Just in case?"

He inwardly cringed, and straightaway regretted repeating the previous sentence before he even finished saying it. Goddamn, he was starting to sound like a fucking parrot. They really didn't have time for this. This needed to stop now.

"Yes." Mendez simply stated.

"Chief, you know as well as I do that not disclosing those bags' contents is seriously against Army flight regs," the pilot gradually reminded him, "And I happen to know about those said flight regs, because you used to chew me out on 'em, when I was bringing a couple of non-mission items aboard last April. Not to mention I can't necessarily put them on the ops-log as a bunch of 'unknown items'. If I did, that'd probably drive our captain even nuts, and he's already more pissed at us as it is."

"Why?"

The contentious argument earlier, about Scarlett Johansson's and the German-Brazilian hottie's boobs in the briefing room, immediately came to mind.

"No reason." Wilkinson instantly replied, audibly clearing his throat in an effort to seem casual. "Anyway, you still need to tell us about the bags' purpose, Chief. I'd like to think we at least deserve to know that much."

"Alright, alright, kid." The older man conceded in a huff. "You win."

"Damn straight." Jack hastily joined in from behind them with a victorious, smug tone from out of nowhere.

Which wasn't necessarily appreciated by the CWO5. Who slowly turned his head to face the other younger aviator, and gave him a _deadly_ serious look.

The man was not messing around.

"Sorry." the co-pilot timidly apologized, as he backed-off from their discussion and preceded to droop his head down whilst keeping his mouth shut. Hopefully for the remainder of this discussion.

If looks could kill, then the one Mendez was currently giving Jack would've killed him at least two dozen times over. Seriously, he did not want to be under that man's lethal, no-nonsense gaze.

"Moving on," he voiced out loudly, mostly to keep the crew chief from making his co-pilot spontaneously combust under his ever vigilant death stare, "well, Chief?"

"I just have a bad feeling about this mission, is all." Mendez muttered out as he faced him once more. "And it's been bothering my gut non-stop ever since I left Central Ops."

"And, I'm guessing you're not going to tell us what you know about this whole thing, anytime soon?"

"I'm afraid not, kid. I'm not even sure about it myself yet."

"Honestly, Chief." Wilkinson sighed in acquiescence. "You're not making this any easier for the rest of us."

"I know, but I'm just going to have to ask you to trust me on this one, kid."

"That's a pretty tall order, man."

"Listen, if my gut is wrong about this whole thing, and I do hope to Christ it really is, then after all this I'll personally fucking put myself on report if I have to."

He just closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. For crying out loud, he really did not need this shit at all right now. Between a new, completely untrained guy taking over Chief Vernon's place, and his most experienced crew chief hauling along whatever the fuck it was he was so intent on hauling, this was starting to give him a goddamned headache the likes of which he wasn't really prepared to deal with. Nor was he ever actually looking forward to dealing with it.

Ever.

If he had been a lawyer right this second, he'd probably be too busy banging his hot secretary on her desk right now instead of dealing with all this shit.

Christ Almighty, what could've been…

"Please, kid." Mendez implored quietly. "Just look the other way, just this once."

"Fuck, fine!" He said out exasperatingly with raised arms in surrender. "But this better not bite us in the fucking ass once this is all over."

"You got it."

He faced his co-pilot.

"That good enough for you, Jack?"

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Sure thing." The WO1 answered right away without thinking.

"Alright, that fucking settles it, then. Come on, let's get on with this damned preflight." Wilkinson said right before everyone scattered, with him walking to the right side of Betty and opening the door leading further into the cockpit, whereas his co-pilot had already gone in from the other side. Before he went in, he saw the Asian from earlier just standing aimlessly.

"Hey, FNG. Uh, Spec, what was your name again?"

"Beg pardon, sir?" The young Asian kid, who had been nearby the three of them when the unnecessary drama took place, and just kept his silence while wordlessly observing them, snapped to attention near the Black Hawk's mid fuselage as his presence was noticed.

"Your name, dummy. You have a name, don't you?"

"Oh. Uh, Nishioka, sir. Specialist Terrance Nishioka."

"Nish-what?"

"Nish-i-oka."

"Nee-shee-yo-ka?" He slowed it down a bit to see if he got the kid's name right down pat.

"Yes, sir. That's it."

"Well, 'Nishioka'," Wilkinson went inside the cockpit, sat down the really uncomfortable looking chair, and started to strap himself in. Alongside in the other seat just next to him, Jack had already buckled down and was putting on his flight helmet; and just right outside, the young specialist went a bit closer to hear what he had to say. "you ever flown in a Black Hawk before?"

The guy shook his head.

"No, sir."

"Oh? Well, that's not too bad." He stated as he placed his own sizeable flight helmet on his head and was securing it with the chinstrap. "So, what's your MOS?"

"Ninety-Two A, sir."

He did not hear that right. It probably must've been the wind from the outside that was _clearly_ messing up parts of his hearing, because he did not just hear the young Asian kid say…

"Come again, Spec? I really didn't quite hear you, right."

"Niner, two, alpha, sir." Nishioka succinctly and clearly repeated each word for his benefit.

Wilkinson just mutely stared at the shorter man.

92A.

That's…that wasn't somewhat right. Because from what he could actually remember, from the Army military occupation codes that he'd come to know over the years, the one that Nishioka just mentioned out loud to him was that of a…

No. It just wasn't possible. Wasn't it? Even Mendez couldn't have missed that.

They have got to be fucking kidding. It wasn't right at all. Last he checked, guys who had that specific MOS were…

Goddamn it.

This was probably what it felt like, being treated more or less like a fucking idiot from the higher-ups in the upper echelons of command. He didn't think he'd actually get to experience this kind of fucked-up stupidity first-hand, but damn it, this was really starting to piss him off.

A 92-fucking-A.

They just had to send a goddamned automated logistical specialist.

For a part-time replacement crew chief, the Headquarters Company in there infinite wisdom had deemed it fit to send them someone, whose job was primarily being responsible for supervising and performing management, or warehouse duties, in order to maintain equipment records and parts.

In short, basically a glorified military paper pusher.

At this exact moment in time, he wholeheartedly knew that his fledging Army career just hit an all-time fucking low.

Figures.

Oh, well. As usual, he might as well roll with the fucking punches and do his damnedest to not give a shit about it, and also place it along with a sizeable list of other things he'd already long given up on.

In retrospect, he really should stop being all surprised about these kinds of situations.

"Alright, Spec," Wilkinson said. "was Warrant Officer Mendez aware of your certain…lack of, uh, aviation experience?"

"Yes, sir. I told him that the moment I was assigned to him."

"And he just agreed to have you? Just like that?"

"Well," Nishioka looked up in contemplation, "he did ask me a few questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Uh, well," the young Asian specialist started counting off with his fingers, "like, if I could shoot a couple of weapons that he mentioned, if I spoke the language here, and, uh, if I was willing to fall in line and follow orders without making a fuss. That was pretty much it, I suppose."

"And you're really alright with that, being a part-time crew chief with absolutely zero training under your belt whatsoever?"

"It does bother me quite a lot, to be honest, but Mister Mendez assured me that I'll do fine, and that I should just listen to whatever he says and everything would go along well-enough."

"Huh. Well, whatever," he acknowledged obligatorily with a wave, "if he says you're up for it, then who am I to argue. Like you said, just do as he asks, and try not to fuck up so much. Other than that, you'll do just fine, buddy. Oh, and welcome to Army chopper Badger Two-One, by the way."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." The specialist gave him a salute.

"Right, right. Move along now, git."

Nishioka nodded once and went around back to assist the older crew chief, who was now starting to secure the two M240D machine guns and their respective ammunition placed near the doors.

"Goddamn paper pusher." He quietly muttered in disbelief to himself, as he grabbed the preflight guideline booklet near him that served as their cockpit apparatus checklist. "Jesus."

Trying his best to ignore the staggering and unavoidable truth, that one of their number was not-at-all capable to even remotely be here; Wilkinson instead elected to do something else, and chose to refocus his thoughts elsewhere. Specifically at how nice it felt being back here in the cockpit, as always, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of knobs, instruments, buttons, switches and levers that he already knew by heart as to what the full extent of their functions were, and in what order to fully use them.

Not to mention how he couldn't overlook the wide, masterful placement of the new glass windows surrounding in front of them, which afforded both of Betty's pilots an impressive view of what was just lying in wait ahead of them, figuratively and literally speaking.

There really was no place quite like this one. And he was glad that just being here once more, in the epicenter of Betty's complex controls and pretty much the beating heart of her absolute being, made him feel quite at home.

Right then and there, he told himself that he was never, ever going to give up this warm feeling of contentment. Ever. In any case, not while he was still breathing.

At the very least, flying this beautiful piece of human skill and advanced machinery made his term of service here in the Army somewhat bearable.

"You ready to do this thing?" Jack asked.

"Yep," he opened up the booklet and placed it along his thigh. "let's."

With practiced ease, he flickered his gaze first to the uppermost directions specified at the top of the booklet, and took it from there.

In all honesty, he already knew what to do even _without_ consulting the little white book in his lap, based from all the experience he'd managed to acquire after all these years; first as Betty's co-pilot a year ago, and second, as her newly minted primary aviator when the chopper's former primary, CWO5 Pressley, retired after putting about twenty years in the service.

If he felt like it, he could've just gone on with the preflight checklist right through the top of his head with relative straightforwardness. And it would've worked either way. But, after just about countless flight hours of doing this exact same procedure, over and over _and over_ again, it just didn't feel right anymore not doing it _literally_ by-the-book; as he went through the motions of doing customary flight protocols, with the air and confidence of a professional, fully-proficient United States Army aviator.

It kinda made him feel a little old, though. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. He wasn't _that_ old, after all.

He just turned twenty-five a few months ago.

"Alright, shoulder harness locks. Check it."

"Already did." Jack automatically replied without missing a beat.

"You sure?" He asked as his hands proceeded to do his own checks on the restraints he was currently sporting. "Come on, man. Check."

"I'm fine, damn it."

"No, you're not."

"Why not?"

"You're wearing your ballistic upgrade plate, right?" Wilkinson asked as he did a once-over on the other guy. He could already see what was wrong.

"I mean, yeah. We all are, aren't we? What about it?"

"Check your seatbelt buckle again."

Without a sound, his co-pilot checked it for a brief moment. And thinking he found nothing was wrong with the setup, he looked at him again expectantly.

"Well?" The younger man asked.

"Seriously?"

"There's nothing wrong with it." Jack stated obstinately.

"Where's your seatbelt buckle currently at?"

"Uh, just…slightly above the plate. Why?"

"The first thing on our checklist, and you're already getting it all wrong." He slightly chastised his subordinate. "Just move the buckle below it."

"Why?" The WO1 asked him again on reflex.

Goddamn it, Jack was no worse than Mendez at being like a fucking kid. Though technically, the newly-commissioned Warrant Officer really _was_ a kid, him being at twenty-one years of age.

"Haven't you learned anything in flight school? You're supposed to have the buckle _below_ the plate. Because if you don't, you'll…?"

He purposely didn't finish the sentence, so that his younger lesser could have a chance at finishing this particular thought, and then understand what he was trying to impart. That not properly securing said buckle could lead to aft cyclic restriction.

Though, currently, Jack was just looking at him with doe-eyed fascination, and not really doing anything to answer him or his particular query.

For the love of God, why was this guy his co-pilot again?

"Because you'll get…?" He asked again.

"Uh…" Jack drawled on.

"Get…aft…cyclic…"

"Cyclic…?"

"Restr…—"

"—restraints?" The co-pilot directly presented with an obviously hopeful look on his face, just shamelessly trying to do an absolute shot in the dark.

"God, you're a fucking idiot." He groaned audibly as he placed a hand on his face in utter defeat. How in the hell did this fuck stick even pass the flight exams? "From now on, just follow my lead and try your best to shut up. Alright?"

"Fine with me."

* * *

"APU control switch."

"Uh…?"

"Jack, it's the flip-up switches next to the back-up radio controls. It's just right above us."

"Oh, right! Got it." Jack spotted it, and flicked two mercury-tilt switches for the auxiliary power unit's activation, which was in the considerable upper console that was right overhead from the pilots in the cockpit.

"Confirm on?" Wilkinson asked plainly.

"Check."

"APU generator switch."

"Standby…" The younger co-pilot flipped another switch on the APU instrument panel, and turned a rotary control knob three clicks clockwise all the way to the other side. "Check."

"Alright. APU primaries."

"That's the thing that's grey switch hanging above us, right?" Jack asked.

"Nope."

"No?"

He pointed to the little T-handle right below the APU controls, that was just almost wedged in between the secondary IVHMS panel and the section reserved for the redundant hydraulic pumps.

"Right, got it." His subordinate pushed the handle all the way forward. "Check."

In front of them, the LED notification panels situated in their foremost console lit up in the affirmative.

"There we go," Wilkinson spoke up as he started putting on his gloves. "all that's left now is the primary start-up sequence and we're good to go."

"Can't wait." Jack enthusiastically said as he gave out a small smile.

"I have to ask, do I need to guide you through this too?"

"Uh, I mean, I'm more used to this part than the actual preflight, if that's what you wanted to know."

"You're supposed to master _all_ aspects of flying, Jack. Pre, during, and after flight."

"Look, if it means anything to you, this is the first time I've been on an actual bird since I left flight school."

Ah. That was starting to make a lot more sense now. No wonder this guy was having a hard time trying to do actual shit. That, and he was just starting out as a flight warrant officer. He almost always forgot about that little tidbit, and he didn't know why.

"And how long ago was that again?" Wilkinson asked.

"Three and a half months, ago."

"Well, that explains it."

"Huh," the WO1 commented attentively, "to be honest, I kinda expected you to get all pissed and angry right about now."

As was his right, he thought to himself inwardly, but he wasn't feeling overly frustrated and angry at the moment. He just shrugged his shoulders at his subordinate's query.

"And I'm going to tell you the truth just as equally, buddy. I don't really care, right now. The moment we get back from this op, I'm going to have to drill you in everything."

"Everything?" His co-pilot ruefully inquired.

" _Everything._ " He replied in finality. "Though, just out of curiosity, what was your ranking when you graduated from the Aviation Center?"

"Thirty-eighth."

"Oh. That isn't so bad."

"Out of forty students."

"Ah. That makes even much more sense." Wilkinson added as an afterthought. Yep, he really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

"Should I start?" Jack asked.

"By all means."

Devoid of any further off-putting thoughts, he saw the co-pilot next to him get to work.

"Switching main power on," the WO1 vocalized, as an arm reached forward to the main instrument dashboard and flipped on the switch for the electrical systems start-up.

From in front of them, a shrill warbling tone incessantly beeped to indicate that power was now conveying directly into the principal flight systems, and other necessary components; presently allowing them to be used from this point on.

Next thing his subordinate did was move a miniature yellow and red lever forward, from the dividing central console between them that separated both pilots, which started the process of feeding fuel straight into Betty's twin gas-hungry turboshaft engines.

"Fuel transfer sequence…set."

"Roger." Wilkinson affirmed for Jack's benefit.

"Beginning primary start-up." his co-pilot said as he moved the one of the starter release in the upper console, then slowly pushed forward the first out of two sizeable overhead throttle levers just halfway from full output, putting them on idle.

Above them, the core engine pylon from atop the helicopter started whirring loudly into life, as they saw the four-bladed rotors spun ever so slowly from inside the cockpit.

"Solid output on One." He commented as he checked the engine indicators on the IVHMS, which was giving out real-time telemetry regarding its performance. Engine temp and oil pressure were good, and RPM's were stable.

"Roger," Jack replied noncommittally as he pushed another engine starter release, then did the same to the second throttle lever as the first one, "starting up on Two."

"You sure are taking your sweet time, buddy."

"Bite me." The younger aviator retorted while pressing a few square buttons on the console in-between them, to set up the automatic flight control settings. Said buttons immediately lit up with the word 'on' after being pressed.

It didn't take long before the rotors overhead started to pick up considerable speed, and it was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the ever constant whine of Betty's gas turbine engines, as it began its earnest hum towards full power.

"Pull back on the starters for the engines." Wilkinson commanded.

"I got it, I got it." His co-pilot towed back on both the engine starter releases, once it was deemed credible enough that both of Betty's powerplants had reached considerable RPMs, and they weren't in any danger of pulling off a 'hot start'.

Things were going surprisingly well.

Outside of them, the rest of the Black Hawks belonging to their company had also begun with their own respective start-up sequences, and now the main rotors from seven other combat helicopters were spooling up with unremitting readiness, the same as them; filling up their section of the forward operating base with a really loud and undeniably constant sputtering of chopper blades, that were spinning at several thousand revolutions per minute.

This was finally it.

After having been cooped up for about two and a half weeks in their FOB, and with nothing better to do besides doing constant maintenance checks and prepping general readiness, they were ultimately going to do what they did best.

General support missions.

Though, it didn't really sound as badass as he hoped it'd be, once he started thinking it a lot.

While not as insanely flashy—or as explosive-filled—as the other Army aviation battalions that were flying heavily-armed AH-64D Apache gunships, or OH-58 Kiowa armed scout platforms, their jobs as Black Hawk drivers were just as important. Maybe even more so, if he did say so himself.

Sure, finding something that was hard to detect, and then blowing them up with a shit-ton of ordinance had a certain unquestionable appeal to it; but in the end, somebody _had_ to ferry troops and supplies across a wide variety of inhospitable terrain, or initiate combat search and rescue in a highly dynamic operating environment, and even a bunch of other things that gunships or scouts are just not capable of doing better besides shooting and finding.

When it comes down to it, nothing can beat the Black Hawk when it comes to rugged versatility and overall adaptability.

And once more, they finally had a chance to prove themselves yet again here in the Japanese mainland.

Just like when they did in Iraq and Afghanistan.

All they needed now was the word.

* * *

" _All Badger callsigns, this is Badger Six."_ The radio squawked with the distinct voice of Captain Conklin in their helmets. _"We have greenlight on mission. I say again, we have greenlight on mission."_

"Fuckin' A!" Jack declared excitedly once he heard their CO speak, five minutes later.

He on the other hand didn't bother saying a word, and just kept on listening on the command net.

" _As follows, Badger Two elements will lead off first in this mission on the flight line,"_ Conklin continued, _"and once they're fully airborne, Badger One will trail directly on their six all the way towards the target area. All Badger Two helos, standby…"_

"Alright," Wilkinson began plainly as he eyed the controls. "looks like it's time for us to earn our pay, I suppose."

"Yeah!" His co-pilot yelled loudly once more in anticipation.

"Dude," He looked at this subordinate in annoyance, "curb your fucking enthusiasm. Christ, it's not helping."

"Sorry, I'm just so excited."

"Really? You don't say?"

"Alright, I'll shut up now. Happy?"

Without a word, he grabbed both of the overhead throttles that were already set idly halfway by his co-pilot earlier, and slowly pushed them all the way forward till the end, where it locked securely in place with a somewhat satisfying click.

From above them, the rotors began to spin even more rapidly, as more and more fuel was being fed directly into the voracious turboshaft engines.

" _Badger Two-One,"_ Conklin addressed him directly. _"you go first. Lead off the rest of Badger Two, over."_

"Roger wilco," He replied as he gradually started taxiing off Betty forward and away from the rest of the parked and spooled up helicopters. "Badger Two-One is Oscar Mike at this time."

" _Solid copy."_

Using his cyclic flight stick located between his legs, in conjunction with the anti-torque pedals positioned solely underneath his feet, Wilkinson taxied off his helicopter like a conventional fixed-wing aircraft, like he's done countless times since he first took the reins off of a helicopter trainer a few years back at Fort Rucker.

What used to cause him undue amounts of difficulty and stress back then, he could now do so with unsurprising ease, as the rest of Bachelor Two, which numbered four Black Hawks including his own bird, parted away from the parked collection of Army aircraft and followed him in an orderly single file column.

Army training and precision at its most finest.

Two minutes later, they were already at a considerable distance away from the flight line.

" _Two-One, call the ball. It's your show, son."_

"Acknowledged." He replied nonchalantly.

He did a brief last minute check on all of Betty's critical flight systems. Satisfied that nothing was amiss about what he was being shown with, he brought a hand to his helmet and lowered the built-in visor.

"Badger Two, this is Two-One," he spoke to the rest of the pilots in his element, "we are now lifting off."

No one replied. He expected as much. No one usually did unless it was the XO or the company commander himself. Not that he actually minded.

Giving a brief nod to his co-pilot, he slowly pulled back on the collective controls just right next to his left thigh with his left hand, and both saw and felt Betty gaining elevation progressively and surely.

The engines were whining loudly underneath his controls, but so far everything was going accordingly. When he reached the designated altitude, he spoke on the radio again.

"Alright, Badger Two is moving out at this time. Over."

With that being said, he carefully pushed the gripped cyclic stick forward, and urged his bird to go headfirst. Right behind him, three other Black Hawks dutifully followed in near-perfect formation, as they headed west straight towards their objectives at Tokonosu City.

The time was now precisely eleven hundred hours.


	3. Gravity of the Situation

" _Foxtrot Three-Three, Foxtrot Actual. Be advised, large formation of Jap civvies inbound from the west, designate at grid four-four-three-seven-eight-one. I say again, large Jap civvie group is inbound to your pos. ETA currently unknown. You are to maintain current position, and continue assisting local PD at this time. How copy?"_

Another one? Jesus Christ. These people were like fucking ants.

"Understood, Actual." Sergeant Erik Delavigne responded after he keyed on his radio's transmit function. "Will do, out."

"So," next to him, Corporal Will Sanders wandered close by, "what is it this time?"

"Shit-ton of civvies is coming this way."

"Again?" The corporal asked in bewilderment, with a barely concealed scowl on his face. "Dude, last time we had a large group of them swing by, we barely managed to hold on to this barricade as it is."

"I know."

"Did they at least say that they were going to send help our way?"

"Nope." He replied with a plain-spoken tone. "Just told us to hold and assist. Again."

"Sarge, this crap is getting pretty tiring." Sanders commented, as both of them overlooked the hastily assembled barriers all around them, with the forefront manned by strained officers of the Tokonosu Police Department.

He let out a tired sigh.

"No shit."

The four-way intersection that they were presently holding, in which three of the connecting roads were already being blocked off, was being besieged by frightened civilians on all sides; trying to access the sole available road that connected it to Obantsu Bridge, just less than a dozen klicks west, which was one of the city's four primary river crossings that allowed access towards the other side of the riverbank.

Five hours ago, Delavigne and his nine-man squad—along with several others belonging in his military police company out of FOB Pocky—were suddenly assigned orders, to be disseminated all throughout the city and be imbedded with a couple of Jap police units, with the latter being tasked by city officials with manning impromptu barricades and checkpoints all over the eastern section of the river.

And here they were, three hours later. Now barely holding ground on this juncture with about a dozen Jap police officers of varying degree, doing their damnedest to stem the tide against the ever constant onslaught of people, who were scared out of their goddamned minds and aggressively trying to make their way through.

Why they were doing this, he really didn't know. And when he tried to ask about it from his platoon commander, who in turn asked their esteemed company CO, the answer was still the same as it always was when he was told about it afterwards.

They didn't know shit.

Or more importantly in typical Army-speak, it wasn't their job to mess around and know why they were being deployed here. That this was way above their pay grade, for which it was usually the case most of the time.

While that may have been good enough for the rest of the guys, everything about this deployment just rubbed him the wrong way.

Why were this people in such a frenzied state of panic? And, more importantly, what in the hell were they trying to run away from?

"Looks like that's our cue, Sarge." Sanders remarked simply as he pointed to the developing scene ahead of them, where three police officers from in front of the barriers were already on their way of being overwhelmed by an ever desperate group of civvies. Though, this group looked a tad bit bigger than usual.

He decided to spare a more detailed glance towards them, just for the hell of it.

Ah.

Well, it would appear that the impending, large civilian formation his company commander had dutifully informed him about previously, had just oh-so recently decided to make an entrance. They were here earlier than he had expected them to be.

And now three of Tokonosu City's finest were the first to offer their sincerest greetings to the approaching crowd. Although it was anything but friendly.

Looks like it was up to him and the rest of Third Squad to maintain the peace. Though, in reality, this wasn't really in his job description to begin with.

"Alright," Delavigne began as he securely cradled the M4 carbine in his gloved hands, "Sanders, same as before. Take your fire-team on the third barricade and bail out those poor sons-of-bitches. Me and the rest of the squad will hang back, just in case the other cops need help."

"You got it, Sarge." The corporal replied while heading out to the direction of the beleaguered officers, signaling the rest of his team of three other soldiers to follow him there.

"Remember," the sergeant reminded his subordinate, "just look extra menacing behind the cops, and scare the demented fuckers like we did before. If it worked out once, it'll probably work again."

"Roger that, brother."

The sergeant watched as the four soldiers immediately took up positions behind the makeshift barricade, just a few feet away from both the struggling cops and the rowdy crowd, as they vigilantly stood guard like they were in a contested warzone. All of the MP's eyes threateningly facing forward and their weapons at the ready, in the event that they had to use it to pacify some rowdy, uncooperative civvie who managed to get through.

And no, they weren't going to shoot anyone today. Not if they can help it.

Though, on the off-chance that they did fire off a few rounds, it would probably make their job here a helluva lot easier in trying to disperse this sizeable mob. Lord knows they were growing exponentially by the minute.

Food for thought, he supposed.

But, seventeen guys against a shitload of swarming civvies who are just about ready to do anything to get through this blockade?

Nope, he really did not like his chances at all.

* * *

Inside the joint operations room in the bowels of FOB Pocky, Colonel Logan Ridgeway was not a happy man.

And based on the current situation reports that were flooding in from the scattered units spread all over Tokonosu City, he imagined that he really wasn't going to be experiencing any form of blissful happiness anytime soon.

Or for the next several years, for that matter.

It was just _that_ bad.

To say that their AO's condition had deteriorated from bad to worse was an immensely colossal understatement, the likes of which he hasn't even seen before in all of his years serving as an experienced combat officer in the world's most powerful army.

Things were happening so damned fast throughout the Japanese coastal city that he, and the rest of his operations staff, had failed to anticipate for the city's local authorities to capitulate this quickly, and in such a brief amount of time no less.

In fact, the only thing that was preventing the situation from imploding into just about total fucking anarchy, was the timely arrival of his deployed military police components, and the leading elements of the Japanese Self-Defense Force's ground personnel. Who were, as of this moment, stationed at key points throughout the city's major roadways, intersections, bridges, and other crucial access points; trying their hardest to contain this…highly unusual state of affairs, from escalating even further.

Though, even with the well-timed allocation of various military assets currently at his disposal, it wasn't nearly enough to curb the city's massive bleeding. The aforementioned hemorrhaging in this case being the uncontrollable civilian exodus, in which the population were migrating _en masse_ towards the other side of the river at an unprecedented rate.

To think that this unsubstantiated report, of people from all over just senselessly killing each other, and that the ones that were killed just miraculously coming back to life somehow, was pretty much causing this entire city to turn into a smorgasbord of dilemmas finely crafted into one unreasonably giant mess.

Seriously, this whole scenario—in which they were all ordered to try their best to contain by the higher ups in the NCA—was like something entirely out of a bad cartoon that these people here were known to make.

Except that the persistent headache in his head was constantly reminding him that all of this was just too unbelievably real for his liking.

But, according to the regimental S-3 currently standing in front of him, his outstanding problems that were already piling on top of one another were remotely far from over.

"I'm sorry," Ridgeway said as he massaged the bridge of his nose, "what was that again?"

"The mayor has asked that we ramp up more support, sir." The regimental operations officer, a captain by the name of Powell, informed him accordingly. "That we should send everything we got before he loses control of the situation."

"Alright," the colonel said with a sigh, "hopefully it's going to be a reasonable request. What's he asking for this time?"

"That we deploy a few birds from First Battalion, sir."

The colonel's brain went blank in the space of a second, trying to ascertain if he heard what the man from across said to him was real or not, then came back in full unrelenting force, as what the Jap government official had requested of him had finally started to sink in.

"He wants _what_?" He roared with a rather loud voice.

"First Battalion, sir."

"The hell does that little fucker even want to do with them?"

"According to his chief-of-staff, the local police forces stationed at a place called Avenue Five are completely spent," Powell said normally, "that it wouldn't be long now for the civvies in that sector to break through, and he wants a couple of the requested birds to do a few overheads just to scare 'em into submission."

"Jesus, that's a bit overkill, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

Ridgeway shook his head in immense disbelief.

Gunships.

The local mayor in charge of governing this city was, for all intents and purposes, asking him for the possible deployment of his regiment's Apache gunships. Combat helicopters, that were usually used to hunt down enemy armor and engaging hostile soft targets with sickening ease, were now being requested to be used as a makeshift nonlethal force multiplier, to further help pacify the restless civilian populace in that sector.

It was almost a tad bit too much to believe.

Still, he needed to think about a few more…less drastic options, before he actually started to consider the likelihood, of sending a couple of $65 million dollar death machines as puffed up allegorical boogeymen for the Jap civvies.

Though, in all honesty, a small part of him _did_ find that thought a little bit funny.

He immediately squashed said thought whilst audibly clearing his throat.

"What about sending in a few ground troops their way?" He suggested. "We could reroute a squad or two from other less critical areas."

Powell just shook his head.

"I'm afraid that's not possible, sir. All of our assigned ground units are spread thin as it is, and redirecting any one of them could jeopardize the entirety of the already strained picket lines."

"Alright then, what if they let those cops fall back to regroup? Say, make them consolidate somewhere more defensible?"

Again, the captain just shook his head.

Goddamn it, these Japs were sure as hell not making his job here any easier. Compared to his four tours in a proper combat zone like those in Afghanistan, this shit was way more difficult than what he was originally led to believe.

Now that he thought about it, a couple of crazy jihadists were comparatively way better to deal with, rather than doing all this 'nation assisting' horseshit those State Department pukes at Foggy Bottom were blabbering on about.

Honestly. They should've just sent a National Guard unit here instead of them. Everyone knows that this was way more up the weekend soldiers' alleyway, anyhow.

"What are your thoughts about all this, Captain?" He asked his subordinate right out of the blue.

"Sir?" His subordinate looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Your thoughts, son."

"What, like, about the Apache requests?"

"That, and with us being sent here."

"Well," the S-3 placed a hand in his chin, signaling his contemplation, "it _does_ seema bit drastic, sending a couple of armed helos for what's basically glorified crowd control. As for being here, though…"

"Yeah?"

"I don't really know what to feel, I guess. This is all just way over my head, sir..."

He chuckled at that statement, slightly surprising the younger officer before him. It was glad to know he wasn't alone.

"I feel the same way, son." He said with an amused breath.

"Colonel, if it's any consolation, I highly doubt we're the only ones thinking that particularly line of thought anyhow."

"I suppose." Ridgeway replied, just before turning serious. He already had a plan in mind to address their continuing lack of manpower. "Son, tell my XO to round up any and all nonessential personnel here in Pocky."

"Sir?"

"Go on, now. Tell him to assemble whoever he can find on the flight line that Black Hawk company just vacated a while ago.

"Uh, okay." Powell just agreed confoundedly. "What about the mayor's request for gunships?"

"Hmmm…I'll think about it."

* * *

It didn't take long before Delavigne and the other fire team under his command was suddenly forced to act beyond their mere capacity as reserves.

About half an hour after the second large group of civilians had barged straight into their lines, things we already starting to heat up too much for their own good.

Only this time, their measly presence here wasn't enough to deter any unwanted aggression.

A couple of police officers from the first barrier, the one overlooking the leftmost road of the obstructed intersection, got abruptly jumped by a few angry citizens, and it didn't necessarily take a genius to figure out that they were obviously pissed because they weren't allowed through.

And now their pent-up frustrations were being taken out on the poor cops manning their section of the blockade, who—just like everyone else who was here—were just there trying their hardest to do their jobs as best as they can, regardless of the present circumstances.

He could see those poor bastards' fellow officers being clearly disturbed at the sight unfolding before them, but really couldn't do anything as they held their own end of their posts and dutifully upheld their responsibilities, unable to do any further course of action other than stare at their comrades with immense worry.

For him though, seeing those cops being struck with such malice because they were just doing what they were supposed to do was the last straw, and the sergeant immediately ordered the four other soldiers around him to follow his lead, as they neared the contested area with angry faces and their weapons clung closely to their vests.

"What the hell is going on here?" He yelled as loud as he could, while he and the rest of his team finally reached the officers who were back up on their feet, whereas the civvies who clobbered them started to back away because of their opportune arrival.

One of the beaten up officers, the rare one he remembered who spoke passable English, went beside him.

"Sarjantoh!"The man said breathlessly while motioning with his hands wildly. "Prease! Do not hurt! Do not hurt!"

"You alright there, buddy?" One of the soldiers in his team, a private first class named Collins, asked.

" _Hai._ " The beaten-up cop responded as the rest of the officers retreated behind the Americans and tended to their bruises. "We okeh. _Yaru mo shinpaishinaide_."

"What?"

"I think he's saying that they're okay, bud." Delavigne explained as best he could for his fellow soldier's benefit.

"Oh, got it."

The frustrated civilians, who were just about five to six feet away, stared at him and the rest of the MPs with unbridled anger and fury. If it had been possible, him and the rest of his men probably would've been torn to shreds by now if the restless populace from across so desired it.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time today that he was glad for being armed.

" _Shineeee!_ " An old guy from the crowd screamed his heart out, and the people surrounding him roared in tacit agreement as they kept on chanting what he said, over and over again to their hearts' content.

Though fortunately for the Americans, they didn't move an inch.

"What do we do, Sarge?" Collins had asked.

Delavigne looked at the younger kid, whose face was showing equal parts anger and confusion at the sight before them. Something in the back of his mind told him his own features were probably mirroring the same damn feelings as the subordinate next to him.

On the other hand, what the PFC had asked was a pretty damn good question. What are they going to do?

If some civvie was eventually going to attack them, then the ROE they were given from brigade headquarters wasn't necessarily conducive as to apply to their somewhat challenging situation at the moment, and it didn't help that they were rushed out of Pocky so fast that they pretty much didn't have enough time to iron out the fucking thing.

The current one instructed throughout the rest of the company had indicated that they had permission to use lethal force, but only if the present situation had demanded of it and the need for its implementation arises. In a typical combat situation, that was pretty much all that they needed and they'd go off fighting without a hitch whatsoever.

So, what he was trying to ask himself was, in this _clearly_ noncombat setting in the middle of fucked-up Jap central, what were those particular demands going to be when they eventually present themselves later on?

Fuck. This was too damned difficult for his tastes.

Conducting law and order operations in Iraq was one thing, but half-assed crowd control in a foreign country in which they weren't properly briefed about was clearly another.

" _Onegaishimasu!_ " He turned his head up front, seeing a parent who carried a child in her arms, who then pleaded with him once the crown briefly rested from their zealous chants. " _O tsūji sete kudasai!_ "

"Sergeant?" He shifted his gaze again to Collins once more. "Your orders?"

" _Foxtrot Three-Three,"_ his headset suddenly squawked, _"this is Three-Actual. Current orders still stand and—"_

"—Sarjantoh! _Onegai_ ," the cop from earlier appeared out of nowhere, "do not hurt! Prease!"

"— _unconfirmed reports of dead civilians rising back to life is_ — _"_

"— _watashi no kodomo o motte ikou! Onegaishimasu!"_

"—Sarge, tell us what to do, man!"

"—prease, do not…"

"— _if they have bite marks, do not let them through under any circum…"_

It was already starting to take some serious effort to focus now, just about attempting to take in everything as the voices were bombarding him with demands he knew he had trouble comprehending and carrying out.

He wondered, was this enough justification on his part to use lethal force? Just...to make these voices stop bugging him now? Why in the hell did they need to be here anyway? This wasn't what they signed up for.

His trigger finger itched instinctively on the trigger guard as he gritted his teeth.

Goddamn it.


	4. Bon Voyage

"Badger Two helos, Badger Two-One, be advised we are five minutes out to the AO. Break. Prep for immediate insertion to respective LZs at this time, over."

In the roar of the Black Hawk's loud turboshaft engines, the intense whirring of the four-bladed rotors at one thousand feet AGL, and the voices blaring in his worn flight helmet's built-in headset, it didn't take long for Specialist Terrance Nishioka to come to terms with everything that was happening around him so far at this point in time. And inevitably ask himself why…

As in, why in the hell did he even agree to do this?

For fuck's sakes, _why?_

" _Roger, Two-One."_

" _Understood, Two-Three copies all. Over."_

To think, that him _actually_ assenting to all this—while he was still sitting his skinny ass down, at the somewhat questionable comfort of his chair in the Headquarters and Headquarters Company CP back at Pocky—was completely and utterly devoid of all logic and common sense.

He still couldn't quite understand any of it himself. For the love of all things holy and rational, this wasn't even like him at all. And as the pilot of this bird had so graciously pointed out earlier shortly before they took off, he wasn't even remotely trained for any of this; let alone qualified to be here, flying inside the confines of a combat utility helicopter and manning a big-ass M240 with his sweating gloved hands.

It was just a brief moment in time, mind you, but he actually had the balls to delude himself into thinking that he could normally handle a brief flight-op, calmly flying shotgun with one of the battalion's most highly-rated flight crews.

It obviously went without saying, but all the false bravado and rationalization that he had so excellently built himself up earlier, when the scary-looking CWO5 had asked for his assistance in this gig beforehand, had all but evaporated.

And with good reason.

To his immense surprise and annoyance, he had just found out himself that the moment this bird had taken off from the flight line, he was—in point of fact—supremely terrified of flying, just pretty much along the lines of the 'scared shitless' variety.

Yeah, he couldn't believe it either. Only took him about three minutes inside an airborne helicopter to let his fear come to fruition. And truthfully, it took a lot of his crumbling willpower _not_ to scream himself shitless in abject terror when he finally came to that conclusion.

At least he had that going for him.

Looking back though, those three questions that the grizzled crew chief had asked him earlier seemed innocent enough, and he really didn't think it was all bad. At that time, anyways.

Although if he knew that those questions were all going to lead up to this fustercluck of a situation, then he really shouldn't have bothered answering them so damned nonchalantly in the first place. Even if his shitty sense of adventure had desperately wanted for him to try some new and exciting things, besides shuffling copious amounts of paperwork with no available end in sight.

That first question the guy asked him was, could he speak the language here?

Why, yes, of course! That was a definite no-brainer. It just so happens that his parents were originally from Nagoya, and had decided to immigrate to the States during the early nineties, just a few months shy before he was born, and decided that Japanese was the spoken tongue in their new household.

The second one was about his proficiency in several firearms that the crew chief had specified.

Basic rifle marksmanship with the M4 carbine? He had uncharacteristically snorted like an ass at that question, like it wasn't even a big deal because he had oh-so rated 'expert' during his tenure at boot camp, thank you very much. What about the M240 medium machine gun? Well, his supervisor back at the CP was an old OEF vet during the opening stages of the ground campaign, and had originally been an 11-Bravo assigned with said weapon. And during his eventual reassignment to the HHC, the tough grunt had imparted towards him several—at that time, completely unwanted if not unfounded—nuggets of wisdom pertaining to its specific use and maintenance, which was slightly better than nothing.

Thankfully, the man had just given a quick nod regarding that weird ass statement before moving on to the next and final question. Which he honestly thought was the easiest out of all of them.

And it went along the lines of him being willing to obediently follow any given orders at all times, without any hampering opposition whatsoever on his part, and to faithfully respect the overall chain-of-command.

He had to fight the urge to snort a second time after hearing that particular request. That was pretty much what they were all essentially supposed to do here in the Army, wasn't it?

Suffice to say, it didn't really take long for him to answer with a quick 'yes' before he was immediately asked to tag along with the older warrant officer to kit up for flight-ops.

Fast forward an hour and a half later, and here he was.

Hindsight was definitely not 20/20 at that time.

"Alright, boys. One minute out."

That simple sentence spoken by this bird's pilot had gratefully brought him out of his panic-induced trance, and already he willed himself to snap back to reality and into some acceptable semblance of being attentive to his surroundings. Like he really should have done beforehand, like an actual decent crew chief should.

The chopper ride from Pocky towards the Japanese coastal city in question, he just newly noticed, had taken them less time than he had originally foreseen; and now, looking out from his perch inside the Black Hawk, Nishioka was finally able to see and comprehend the gravity of the situation that was unfolding before his eyes.

If the numerous smoke plums rising out from all over the place were any indication, plus the noticeably blocked streets chock-filled with panicked civilians in the sidewalks and congested traffic in the roads, it was safe to assume that things were not going all too well at all here in Tokonosu City. What the main cause of it all was, he really didn't have a clue. But, if he was going to be completely honest with himself—which doesn't really happen as much as it does, nowadays—he probably wouldn't have cared less even if he did know what the hell was going on.

As it stands, he was busy enough as it is, being scared out of his goddamned mind to actually give a damn about everything here that didn't include him.

" _Two-One, this is Two-Four, we are breaking off west-north-west at heading two-niner-zero at this time towards LZ One. Over."_

"Solid copy, Two-Four." He heard his pilot's annoyingly calm voice once again. "Good luck out there."

A few other similar calls regarding the other helos parting ways made it through towards the tac-net, and already Nishioka saw the three other Black Hawks, flying in formation just in front of him from the left side of their helicopter, all banking hard left towards their respective destinations in transit.

It was actually pretty badass seeing it up close and personal, if he did say so himself. What with the way that each of the birds had gracefully broken off from formation one by one, plainly indicating all too evidently that all of these guys were supremely confident in their overall skills as aviators, and that each and every one of them here obviously knew what to do in situations like these.

And just being here in their presence, observing all of it taking place, just made the lowly logistics specialist's already flourishing self-loathing soar to even greater heights. So to speak. Seriously, what the hell was he even doing here?

"I have visual on LZ Four, twenty-five seconds out. Chief Mendez, standby to receive occupants."

"Got it."The older crew chief gruffly sounded off. "Hey, kid!"

Mendez's sudden booming voice in the helo's shared intercom made him unceremoniously jump a little bit in his skin, and he immediately looked at the man in question earnestly and nervously. Though it was really leaning more on the latter.

"When we touch down, swing your Two-Forty away from the people getting inside. Okay?"

"Yes. sir." He meekly responded without thinking.

"Speak up, spec!"Mendez reprimanded at him, his scowl clearly visible from below the guy's visor and a clearly unhappy voice blaring in his helmet speakers. "Either that or just nod your head and give a thumbs up."

He vigorously nodded in the affirmative.

Nishioka faced the open gun port once more without a second thought, just in time for him to see the rooftop they were going to land in descending into view, along with the surrounding ominous cityscape.

" _Badger Two-One, this is One-Four. Confirm we have eyes on your helo, and are now proceeding to commence holding pattern for immediate overwatch. In the vicinity of grid hotel-romeo-one-six-six-five-two-niner. How copy, over?"_

"That's a solid copy, One-Four. Continuing with touchdown. Be advised, tell Hernandez to watch out for any hostile space tentacles in our area, over?"

He heard a voice laugh unabashedly on the line, followed by another that was clearly less than amused. What the hell was that all about?

" _Understood, Two-One. Will do. Out."_

" _Okay, gents. Touchdown in seven…six…five…four…"_

In any case, it probably shouldn't take too long for him to ride everything out on this potentially brief flight-op. All he had to do now in earnest was just to endure flying towards point A, picking up a bunch of civvies there, then fly back towards the FOB and just patiently wait for all of it to be over and done with, like any usual op.

Right?

Shit, at times like these, one can only hope.

* * *

Like all the chopper landings he'd done and presided over the years, it hadn't taken long for Wilkinson to bring his treasured Betty down gently, in what he himself can only describe as the softest of touchdowns to ever grace the annals of US Army aviation.

Or, ever.

In fact, he landed his bird so damned good, and so damned perfectly, that the usual thump of the wheels from a regular textbook landing barely even registered at all, and he had to strain his ears over the usually loud four-bladed rotors to even hear an actual glimpse of his elegant arrival. A gleaming testament, in fact, to his overall skill as an aviator and inherent natural prowess that he so undoubtedly possessed when it came to flying something, that technically, wasn't supposed to naturally fly in the first place. Like that of a fixed-wing aircraft.

He already knew he was friggin' good the instant he had graduated first from flight school at Fort Rucker a fraction of a lifetime ago, but goddamn it, it was moments like these that made life worth living.

All that hard work after months and months of rigorous and intensive training, and years of practical experience under his belt, finally paying off in the culmination of a moment such as this one.

Well, it probably helped that the pilot he was originally assigned with back then, CWO5 Matt Pressley, was one of the best—if not _the_ best—pilots he has ever had the privilege of flying with. And over the years that he had been with him, he had learned a shit-ton from the guy when it came to flying, and just pretty much life in general. Crap that normally ranged from batshit crazy, to insanely ingenious, that they hadn't even considered teaching it back at flight school; and could only be learned by going through the rigors of life and actual combat. Maybe in a few years they might.

The old geezer was also responsible for naming the chopper that they were all currently in on right now, which the master aviator had deemed it fit to name the helo in honor of his beloved wife of thirty years, who Pressley had obviously adored wholeheartedly.

Strange to think about him now after all this time. But in truth, he actually did miss being with the old bastard and his zany wisdom, and not just in flying choppers too. It ostensibly didn't hurt that his wife made the best damned lemon squares in the history of man.

Time sure does fly.

He laughed to himself a little bit at that shitty pun and shook his head lightly.

In retrospect, he probably should walk through memory lane some other time and just focus on what he was actually doing.

Which was, at this moment in time, maintaining Betty at just enough power and RPMs to bug the fuck out of here in a moment's notice.

"Incoming." Mendez spoke in their shared intercom. "Nine o'clock."

Wilkinson instantly craned his head left at his veteran crew chief's announcement, with the movement virtually second nature after all this time, during their numerous close calls with hostile ground fire and RPGs back during the day.

He practically trained himself into thinking that it was pretty much gospel whenever Mendez talked in a flight-op; and not only did he haveto listen to what the man had to say, he actually _needed_ to, if he really wanted to get them all out of a fustercluck alive.

And looking at the direction specified, he promptly spotted a bunch of civvies quickly approaching the left side of his Black Hawk's fuselage and sizeable rotor wash, with two armed SDF attendants—which he already expected as much, given the briefing earlier—

—and one more individual among them, that he absolutely _hadn't_ expected.

Who looked as if he actually didn't belong in here, at all.

Said individual was now going around the other side of his aircraft's cockpit to talk to him, as the civilian passengers started to noisily clamber on board with the help of the crew chiefs and the local Jap soldiers.

In any case, the guy had the decency to knock on his cockpit door, which he eventually had to open, his reservations notwithstanding.

"Hiya, fellas!" The man in question, who was sporting OCP camo on his uniform whilst heavily armed and loaded for bear, with height taller than the rest of the locals by about a foot, and a definite Southern twang in his voice, cheerfully greeted them. "Fine day, ain't it?"

"Who the hell are you?" Wilkinson asked warily over the loud rotors.

"Whaddya mean?" The guy looked at them, confused. "Didn't they tell you fellas about us back at Pocky?"

"Who's 'us'?"

"Ah, man." The unknown gentleman just shook his head in amusement and grimacing slightly. "I can't believe they forgot about us again, this is like the third time this week."

"Begging your pardon, dude…but again, but who the hell are you?"

"Honestly, this shit is getting pretty old. Christ…"

Eyeing the guy's rank patch placed on his noticeably fully-loaded combat vest, which showed him three black stripes and a rocker, the aviator looked the man in the eye and asked a third time.

"Staff sar'nt, seriously." He made sure to say it slowly so the other guy could definitely read his lips. "Who. Are. You."

"Oh. Right." The guy laughed a bit before turning somewhat serious. "Name's Staff Sar'nt Holloway, Chief. At yer service."

The guy clicked his heels and offered him a playful salute.

"The hell are you even doing here, staff sar'nt?" Wilkinson asked seriously, ignoring the spirited gesture. "Last I heard, Jap SDF were the only ones securing all the LZs in this AO."

"They are. But we aren't here for that, though."

"What do you mean?"

"They sent me an' a buddy of mine to babysit an Air Force TACP team, set up all the way over there." Holloway raised an arm and pointed his finger left, just about in front of the pilot. "They're kinda busy at the moment, so they can't say hi to y'all."

Where, now that he noticed it, a bunch of other guys sporting the same uniform and loadout as Holloway were hunched over near the roof's entrance; with one of them sporting a tactical radio set on his back, with the adjacent satellite antenna just set-up besides him, probably talking to someone with the radio's handset.

It suddenly all started to make sense to Wilkinson now.

That Air Force TACP—or Tactical Air Control Party—was here to pretty much ensure the higher-ups back at Pocky that command and control for this situation was effectively established and maintained, and them being here also helped to smooth things over with their SDF counterparts via an embedded unit with actual boots on the ground.

It probably wasn't far off, but something told him that these guys were possibly even the ones responsible for locating and marking these landing zones earlier beforehand, for him and the others to use eventually.

In retrospection, this really was a good move on the brass's part. Hell, even clever by actual normal standards in the real-world.

But if it weren't for the fact that these TACP guys were being completely forgotten by higher command _at least_ three times, if what Holloway said was true, then Wilkinson might've been even the slightest bit impressed at their uncharacteristic show of foresight and initiative.

Almost, anyways. The Army was still the Army, after all. Nothing was ever going to change that specific notion. He decided to move on to the next topic.

"There more people coming over?"

Holloway shook his head.

"Nope, this is it. Most of the other evacuees are at the other LZs, so you guys are golden."

"Who are these people, anyway?"

"Mostly white-collar government types, civil servants, all that kinda shit." The staff sergeant provided. "I dunno why the Japs want them out so badly, but hey, ain't none of my goddamn business. Pro'lly way above my pay grade, anyhow."

"Amen to that," the CWO4 agreed wholeheartedly, before shifting gears, "you guys going to be alright, though?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Holloway chirped happily with a bucktooth smile. "Those SDF guys are sending us a fancy ass bird in a little while, complete with red wine, cheese, and all that sort of crap after we finish our part in this candy-ass op."

Wilkinson couldn't help but bark a laugh at that particular statement. Whoever this guy was, he was already beginning to warm-up to him, to say the least. Ground pounders were lovable that way.

"I'll take your word for it." He gave the man a respectful nod. "Good luck, staff sar'nt."

"Likewise, Chief…oh, and by the way!" The staff sergeant stated just after turning back from a partial about face. "One of those guys you're haulin' got bit by some deranged civvie a little while back, pro'lly about two to three and a half minutes ago. I think. Poor bastard got a chunk out of his forearm bitten completely off, so we tried to patch it up as best as we can."

"Jesus. No shit?"

"No shit." Holloway chuckled briefly. "Anyways, just thought you fellas should know. I should probably head back to it. Later, tater."

"Later." Wilkinson breathed out while closing the cockpit door, watching the retreating figures of Holloway and the Jap soldiers hobbling back towards their element, with a slight skip in the staff sergeant's step.

There was absolutely no doubt that that NCO was probably enjoying all of this, after having been cooped up for God knows how long in that shitty excuse of a FOB.

With a slight smile, he checked his surrounding periphery with the assistance of Jack and Mendez, and pulled back on the collective throttle, lifting the bird up.

If he did his cards right, he probably could spare that poor bastard with the missing chunk out of his arm the misery of a long and painful ass ride.


End file.
